


The Haven

by magistrainartis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 01:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16398875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magistrainartis/pseuds/magistrainartis
Summary: Finding comfort in the darkness





	The Haven

_Are you home?_

A simple question, the tinny text-to-voice cheerful. So much simpler than _I need help. I can’t sleep. My shoulders hurt and the nightmares are back and I see him in the shadows. Please be home._

_I’ll be returning tomorrow mid-day. Why don’t you stop by if you’re in town?_

Easier than _I’ll cut my trip short and Talcott will drive as fast as the roads allow. I’m texting Gladio right now. Does your stomach hurt? Do you have enough medicine? I’m coming home._

The next evening, in a tiny apartment in Lestallum, there were warm greetings and cheerful smiles. Restrained comments about the smell of mud and the state of Prompto’s clothes. A curry that hadn’t simmered nearly long enough for Ignis’ liking, but Prompto ate so much so quickly that he groaned. Shared stories of searching through libraries, teaching Talcott the old kings’ language so he could help dictate ancient texts into Ignis’ phone. Stories of the latest hunt, of sleeping on dimming runes, and the sombre passing of the eighth year since the sun disappeared. 

Prompto shifting in his chair. Twisting to look behind him, thinking Ignis wouldn't notice. A napkin crinkling between anxious fingers, and a bouncing knee spreading its tension through the shaking floor.

Ignis bent forward and laid a hand on his friend’s upper arm, careful to avoid the wounded shoulder. “Stay here tonight.”

He remained perfectly still, his grip gentle and constant on Prompto’s arm as it softly shook. As Prompto’s breath hitched and he swallowed desperately. As he leaned forward into Ignis, rested his forehead against Ignis’ chest, and sighed. Ignis felt slow droplets land on his shirtfront. There were no sobs, no cries. Those hadn’t helped for years.

“Can I?” He felt Prompto nod. Prompto pushed back his chair, sighed, and slapped his knees before rising to his feet. Ignis followed him to the apartment’s only other room, in which was crammed a bed large enough to comfortably sleep two, a wooden chair, and a narrow chest of drawers. Rustles and thumps as a long-worn denim vest and undershirt hit the floor. The whumpf of pulled-back bedcovers and shuffle as Prompto slid between crisp sheets.

Ignis rolled up his sleeves and pulled the chair beside the bed. He rested his palm on Prompto’s skin, above his heart. “Alright?”

“Yeah.”

It was never easy, healing the old wounds. The magic was strong as ever; the room shone with faint blue light and warmth radiated up Ignis’ arm as he focused on softening scar tissue, loosening muscle, releasing joints. But it was _Noct’s_ magic. His absence rang through each healing pulse. Through the memory of being lifted down from a metal rack, heart and body screaming. Through the memory of a room reeking with rust and blood, of the sharp edge in Noct’s voice, of Prompto’s shaking hands. Through the doubts and the ever-ringing _what if we’d never_ and _why I couldn’t end it_ and _we should have stayed_ and _when, when, when…_

Ignis worked slowly, manipulating the king’s magic as though it were made of aetheric threads he could weave through and around the pain, stitching flesh and restoring mutilation. Before shifting his weight to reach the opposite shoulder, he brushed Prompto’s temple. For a moment, he allowed his thumb to gently stroke his friend’s face, wiping away the dampness as it trickled toward Prompto’s hairline.

Prompto’s breathing had evened and he’d turned his head to better watch Ignis as the last healing threads were woven. The two rested in silence for a moment, Ignis catching his breath after the long session and Prompto testing his joints, afraid to feel the pull of ruined tendons, the tip of a blade.

Their silence was broken by the doorknob turning without a knock, and heavy boots thumping to the doormat. A heavy tread in the kitchen, the opening and closing refrigerator door. Gladio filled the bedroom doorframe, assessed the scene with a single sharp glance, and strode forward to slap Ignis’ back.

“Five of us took down a godsdamned Behemoth outside town. I threw some meat in the fridge.” Gladio pulled off his coat as he talked, tossing it on the now-growing pile of clothes on the floor. “Dead tired, too. Alright if I crash here?” He crawled between the sheets as he asked, letting Prompto shift to the left side of the bed without getting too far away.

“Make yourself at home,” Ignis quipped sarcastically as he retrieved his friends’ clothing from the floor. “I’ll clean these if you don’t think the dirt is the only thing holding them together.”

As Ignis threw in the laundry and began cleaning the kitchen, Gladio told jokes and stories about the Glaives and hunts and Iris making a name for herself despite her brother’s protests. Prompto remained silent, his eyes flicking from Ignis to Gladio and back again. _Two of them. Both of them. It’s real. They’re real. This is real._

Long years of communicating without words - of quick glances over Noct’s head and reading each other’s body language to leave insubordinate words unspoken - were not burned away with Ignis’ sight. Gladio cleared his throat, and Ignis left the pots to soak. Working automatically, he turned off lights as he made his way to the bedroom and clicked on the nightlight in the hall socket.

The mattress afforded just enough room for three. Prompto shifted backward as Ignis settled in. He stiffened for a moment as his back came into contact with Gladio’s chest. _Two of them. This is real._ His thoughts turned to soft mutters through grinding teeth. _Two of them. They’re here. This is real._ Ignis slowly moved closer, until his forehead rested against his friend’s.

“We’re here, Prompto. We’re here.”

A sigh. A release.

“Thanks guys.”

Deep breathing and soft snores. Huddled as if in a tomb. Or a tent.


End file.
